


see what the morning brings

by mozartspiano



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Road Trips, WJC 2017 Team Canada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21530575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mozartspiano/pseuds/mozartspiano
Summary: Mat's dad's station wagon is parked crooked in between two Civics. The sight of it should not make Thomas' breath go all caught in his chest, but it does."You can toss your stuff in the backseat," Mat says, his French stiff.
Relationships: Mathew Barzal/Thomas Chabot
Comments: 9
Kudos: 56





	see what the morning brings

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this since the summer of 2017. that's the setting for it. i had a lot more of a linear structure intended but it's never panned out. i've tried to build something out of the wreckage. 
> 
> s/o to kate for reading this 2 years ago back when i bet she hoped this hockey thing was a phase.
> 
> title from tragically hip's _wheat kings_ bc what other song could one use to title a story about driving through saskatchewan?? also bc saraphina texted me about it this morning.

i.

Thomas doesn't sleep on the plane. 

Thomas doesn't sleep on the plane because he's too busy itching the peeling skin off his nose and popping the plastic around the rim of his water bottle and trying to follow the plot line of a mid-season episode of _ Modern Family _ and really he's doing all this so he does not check his phone again. 

Well, his phone is on airplane because Thomas usually follows the rules, but he does not want to check his messages. Thomas does not want to check his messages because the last one he got kind of really fucked him up, fucked him up so much he's on a plane two days earlier than he meant to be and it's headed to Vancouver, not Quebec City. 

Because Thomas did not sleep on the plane for fear of idleness giving way to checking his phone, he pops into the men's room as soon as they land and splashes water over his face. He looks somehow both sunburnt and too pale in the fluorescent lighting. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. A _ where the fuck r u _ from Jozy. He puts his phone back in his pocket. 

"This is fine," he tells himself. "Everything is fine."

With his carry-on digging into his shoulder, heavy but not hockey bag heavy, he bypasses the luggage carousel and heads into the open lounge area. 

Mat is waiting for him by the Timmies. 

"Chabby," he says, all cool, before wrapping his elbows around Thomas' neck and pulling their bodies together. 

They walk through grey hallways to the parking complex, trailing behind families with wheeling suitcases. Mat's dad's station wagon is parked crooked in between two Civics. The sight of it should not make Thomas' breath go all caught in his chest, but it does. 

"You can toss your stuff in the backseat," Mat says, his French stiff. They are standing at the trunk of the van, looking at the license plate. Mat keeps jingling his keys, up and around his finger, the noise loud in the underground parking garage. 

"Cool."

He's peeking, and he knows Mat's peeking, and then they decide to not peek anymore or whatever, because Mat's coming closer. They hug, like they did on the airport-grey floor tiles near the thick Tim Hortons line, but this time it feels quieter. Mat is wearing a raincoat but through it he feels warm. He smells like lunch and rain and everything he never did in hotel rooms across the world. 

Thomas kisses his ear, then his cheek, and then they let go to get into the car. 

"You definitely got a tan," Mat says, eyes glancing over as they merge onto a very busy highway. "Spend the entire trip lazing around in the sun, Chabshow?"

"You know me."

The sky is grey but there is so much to look at. Thomas cannot see the sea from the highway, but he can see the white peaks of the Rocky Mountains. 

"You had the right idea though." Mat is wearing a Thunderbirds hat and can't seem to stop fidgeting his fingers. "Wish I drowned my Mem Cup sorrows in Cancun like you and Boko."

Thomas does not really want to think about the Memorial Cup or the Otters or the entire OHL if he's honest. He especially does not want to think about that one night in the hotel lobby when Mat stayed up with him for hours, too close on an uncomfortable couch. 

"You would fry down there," Thomas says instead. "And besides, I couldn't invite you with the boys, not while you still had that awful facial hair." 

Thomas only just dodges Mat's punch as it goes swinging into the seat behind his arm and then they are laughing. Mat fiddles with the radio until an indie rock station starts up, then checks to see if it's still raining before dropping his window. He sings along, which is something Thomas knew from sharing locker rooms. He also drives with one hand, the other resting on the gearstick, which is something Thomas did not know.

He's never gotten to see Mat's life before, not really. 

It takes ages to get to Mat's parents' house. They have to drive through all the sprawling suburb of Coquitlam first - Mat pointing out every McDonalds he's ever hooked up in on the way - until they hit trees and start to drive up long hills. Mat lives in one of those houses in the forest with a long driveway and a mailbox with _ BARZAL _ across it, which Thomas would not have guessed. 

They park and then it is quiet again. The only quiet Thomas has ever had with Mat is hotel rooms, waking up from a nap with Mat's nose under his chin, and the still moments in the morning when they're too tired to do more than scroll through Instagram. 

Being quiet with Mat is weird. Usually they can't shut the fuck up long enough to get anything done. 

"Ready to meet the parents?" And when Thomas looks over Mat is grinning like he wants things to be easy so Thomas rolls his eyes and follows him out. 

The Barzals are nice, which Thomas already knew from a forever ago tournament, and Mat's sister is really funny, and Thomas keeps curling his socked toes up against their hardwood floors to make sure this is real. 

Mat grabs them both a beer and opens the sliding glass door with one foot. The cat tries to get out but Mat's sister scoops him up, scolding in a cheery voice. The backyard is so - god it's so BC, a view of mountains with white toques on, the sound of running water just off in the distance. 

"Wanna sit in the treehouse?" and yeah, Thomas does. 

They hang their legs out of it, look out at Mat's yard. It's mostly forest and a deck and a small area of grass. The treehouse smells damp and is empty except for a jam jar with a lighter and bottle opener in it. 

"You like it?" Mat asks. 

"It's alright," Thomas says. 

They crack open their beers and sip for a long time and then Thomas pulls out his phone. Three texts from Jozy:

_ seriously chabby _

_ ????? _

_ don't make me call your mom _

"Mother Mathieu worried?" Mat says, because he loves reading texts over people's shoulders. His mouth is a grin but his eyes are dark. Proud maybe, that he got Thomas to leave his holiday and friends. 

"Smile," Thomas says, aiming his camera. 

He doesn't send the picture to Jozy but instead to the mostly dormant World Juniors group chat. The last message is from Jules, just a row of yellow hearts from March, and it is under it that Thomas' picture goes: Mat, too sharp grin against his beer bottle, a forest and home behind him. Thomas adds _ shitty view _. 

It takes Jozy twenty seconds to respond, and when he does it is directly to Thomas: _ you have got to be kidding me_.

When he looks away from his phone Mat has pulled his own out and it's buzzing in his hand. "Now you've done it Chabshow." 

Clouder is the first one to write back because the kid's surgically attached to his phone, and it's just a row of heart eyes, followed, quite quickly, by a: _ that was 4 u guys being 2gether not bc of barzs face_. Stromer is so quick with a chirp Thomas figures they must be on the same fucking couch somewhere in Southern Ontario. 

Mitchyyyyy: _ Mom and dad are back together again!! _

PLD: _ *barf emoji* *barf emoji* *barf emoji* _

Fabbs: _ Chabbyyyy yes come visit me _

Barz: _ Nope keeping him all for myself _ and then he looks up, grins.

Thomas wants to laugh because he thinks that would be the best reaction but it is very difficult. It is very difficult because the last time he was around Mat they were in a hotel room after they both lost and they had the kind of sex that feels like it's over before it's begun. And the time before that they were in a different hotel room and Mat couldn't stop fucking crying and Thomas' mouth still tasted like salt when he boarded a plane hours later. 

"We can visit Fabbro," Thomas says, taking a pull from his beer. "If you wanted to. It would be nice to see him."

"Nah." He looks good in profile, even if he does need a haircut. "I've got a plan."

Then he puts his chin on his shoulder so their faces are facing each other and oh. 

Thomas has thought about kissing Mat Barzal about eight times a week since the first time he did it. They were kids, basically, eighteen and drunk on Marns' bed with Switzerland out their window and Mat was talking shit like he always is and mostly everyone else was passed out and-

Thomas kissed him just like Thomas is kissing him now. 

Now kissing is easier. Thomas knows where to put his hands. And he knows how Mat kisses, knows he kisses like he plays the puck, controlling and deft and selfish. Mat likes to bite and bite until Thomas pushes back and then he grins, right up against Thomas' mouth. 

"My mom's calling us," Mat says, a minute later, and Thomas drops his head to Mat's shoulder. 

"I told myself I wouldn't do this," Thomas says into Mat's shirt, because he has always been honest with Mat. 

"Shouldn't lie to yourself, Chabby," Mat says, digging his fingers into Thomas' side. "It's bad for your skin."

ii.

They stop fifteen minutes south of Kamloops to fill up. Thomas squeegees the windows while Mat leans against the backseat door of the car, the red Petro Canada light turning his cheekbones sharp. The Subway restaurant across the parking lot is mostly empty except for a few teenagers by the window, laughing and tossing bits of shredded lettuce at each other. 

"You want anything inside?"

Thomas follows Mat into the store. They both immediately head for the sweets, Thomas grabbing a bag of fuzzy peaches, sour skittles. On roadies a few boys will always pick up jerky, but Mat wrinkles his nose at the stand while they wait for the woman in front of them to pay. 

Once outside, sweets tucked inside pockets, Thomas stops. 

Mat stops too, looks over with those eyebrows of his. "Ça va?"

"The mountains are more than I thought they would be."

Thomas watches as Mat follows his sight, as if he's just noticing the white peaks surrounding them. Thomas reminds himself that Mat is a BC boy through and through; he does shit like say "I miss the rain," and sticks his shivering toes under Thomas' thigh like on their Mont Tremblant beds and sometimes he would get snobby about the weed the Mississauga boys brought back to their hotel rooms. 

"You'll get used to them."

This is a lie because pretty soon they will be out of the mountains and onto the prairie. If it isn't a lie then maybe that's worse because it makes Thomas think things. It makes Thomas think things like _ why, do you think I'll be coming back here again soon? _

They sit together at the curb because it's quiet and the teenagers in the Subway are still laughing through the bright windows and no one's around, really. 

Mat kicks his feet out so they touch the edge of the painted wheelchair accessible sign and then he turns his head, gives Thomas a smirk. Or maybe- maybe he's just looking and that's how his face is. 

"You gonna kiss me again, Chabby?" Mat asks. 

Thomas laughs because he wants to and then he leans over, kisses Mat, because he wants to do that too. 

Their knees get in the way, bodies turned together on the curb, but it's okay mostly. Thomas slings his arm around Mat's shoulders and Mat slides his fingers under the collar of Thomas' shirt, hooking over bone and neck and muscle. It's nice because it's always nice with them: easy and soft and hot and warm. 

They make out in the gas station parking lot until an eighteen wheeler pulls in, the rattling engine breaking them apart and up. 

It seems to break the spell. They're back to who they usually are when they sit themselves back in the car: loud and chatty and obnoxious. Mat opens his bag of sour skittles with his teeth and Thomas laughs even though it's not that funny, just to watch Mat smile his too-white teeth over at him. 

"How many days do you think it'll take?" Mat asks as he turns the key, looking over one shoulder like his dad probably taught him. "Bear said we could do it in two days if we don't stop to sleep."

"I like to sleep," Thomas says, tilting his head back against the window. 

"I know you do." Sheets pushed down to the bottom of the bed, laptop on Thomas' lap playing the last twenty minutes of _Back to the Future _, Mat's hair brushing the side of his face- "My mom said a week. If we stop for tourist shit." 

It's growing darker but Thomas can still see the jagged peaks of the budding mountains. The mountains where Thomas is from are rounder, older and maybe wiser. These mountains rise out of the earth sharp and beautiful and striking and cold. 

Perhaps Thomas is overthinking the mountains. 

They reach a town called Salmon Arm when the sky has gone from violet to dark dark blue. Mat pulls the car into a motel with a neon sign and dusty Muskoka chairs outside every door. 

"This is a classy institution Mathew," Thomas says when the engine's been shut off. And then, in English, "she's a real beaut."

Mat laughs, bright, like he's never had anyone ever tell him to be quiet before. "Don't ever say I don't treat you well." Which is- well, it's not worth thinking about for too long. 

It takes Mat exactly twelve minutes - checking in and grabbing their things out of the backseat and sliding their room key into the door - to get Thomas lying flat on the bed. 

He moves against Thomas like a shiver, dragging fingers everywhere and leaving Thomas' skin exposed, vulnerable. He kisses like he's just won, slow and smug, but moves his hands like there's a minute left in the third and they've just pulled the goalie. Mat's good at this but so is Thomas; they both really like kissing people and feeling good. But since this past Christmas and crying over silver in Montreal everything hasn't felt- quite as chill as it used to. 

"Where'd you go?" Mat whispers, hot breath panting across the mark he's been working over for the last minute. 

"I'm right here," Thomas says and then they are kissing again and then Mat is sliding off Thomas' mouth and then Mat is pushing up Thomas' shirt. They fit together, all boy limbs and sharp elbows and tan skin. Thomas likes the way Mat looks at him in the dark, the way his fingers look in Mat's against the sheets. 

They shower together, after. The hotel soap is lavender and it makes Thomas' nose itch as they brush their teeth side by side, Mat's wet hair brushing against Thomas and turning his sleeve dark grey. He sprawls out next to Thomas, not on top of him, with his hand just at Thomas' ribs. The air conditioner in the corner of the room is loud and Thomas blames that on why he doesn't join Mat in sleep. 

He leaves the door open a crack and sits on the Muskoka chair just outside their room. 

It's late in Quebec. He presses call anyways. 

"What the fuck are you thinking?" Jozy asks as he answers on the third ring. 

"I'm not."

"Fucking clearly."

"He needed someone to drive with him to New York." There is lint under Thomas' fingernails. He still smells like the plane, kind of. 

"You're going to New York with him?"

"He's dropping me off in Saint-Marie."

"You're an idiot Chabby," Jozy says. "He makes you an idiot."

"What you're saying isn't untrue." Thomas would go so far as to say it were actually very true. 

"When will you be back?"

Thomas squints at the moths huddled around the light over their room number. "A week, give or take a day. We might pop in to see the O boys."

There's quiet shuffling on Jozy's end. Thomas imagines him in the room he used to share with his brother, one headphone in and rumpled against the bed frame. He's quiet when he says, "I'm just worried about you Thom, you were pretty messed up last time." 

"We had just got a silver medal."

"You and I have lost before but you were never like that."

Thomas hangs up seven minutes later. Somewhere in Salmon Arm crickets are putting on a show and Thomas listens until his skin goosepimples across his shoulders. Then he goes back inside and back into bed and back next to Mat.

iii.

Lake Louise is a candy blue colour and it makes Thomas thirsty. There's a German couple taking selfies and Mat takes a few pictures for them. In return they snap a few of Thomas with his arm over Mat's shoulder, hips knocked together. Mat's over it, been here a million times, but Thomas sits on the edge of the boardwalk and sticks his toes into the water. 

"Lucky we're here now," Mat says, cross-legged next to him. He's got mirrored sunglasses on. "In August this place is crawling with tourists."

"Like Quebec," Thomas says. 

They brush elbows and stand. They grab a late lunch in town, at a patio restaurant packed with families. Mat laughs when Thomas' nose goes red under the warm sun. He's still got his fucking sunglasses on and he looks good, looks as sharp and angular as he always does. It makes something old in Thomas ache.

"We should see if Beaner is in Calgary," Mat says, watching Thomas drink from his beer. They want to check into their hotel before it gets dark, so Mat didn't order a second. When their eyes meet he grins. "If anyone knows where the party's at, it's Beaner."

"You're an ass."

Thomas texts though, as they drive out of Banff village: _any recs for calgary?_

Clouder: _idk never been_

PLD: _lollllll_

Josty: _come to edmonton!!_

Thomas tips the screen so Mat can see at a red light. He lifts his sunglasses, snorts, and says: "Fuck Edmonton."

Thomas types, diligently, _Barz says no sorry bud._

Josty: _screw you barz!!!!_

Josty: _jk jk r u guys having fun??? :)))))_

Clouder: _gross_

Thomas locks his phone and puts it in the cup holder. Mat looks over, eyebrow raised behind his sunglasses. It was barely a secret, hooking up all tournament. After awhile they stopped caring, used to make out over waffles at breakfast. 

But it's still weird. Thomas doesn't love the jokes.

"You okay?"

"Mm."

Mat reaches over, clasps a hand on his thigh. "I have gum if your ears are going weird. The mountains always fuck with my ears."

"Thanks."

Thomas doesn't love the jokes because he used to make them, back when it was someone else Mat grinned at over gear shifts. 

Beaner hasn't responded by the time they check in so they get dinner without him, a Mexican place on 4th with guacamole bowls the size of Thomas' head. It's loud and the drinks are way too strong and Mat's mouth is making Thomas think very bad thoughts. Thoughts he thought he trained himself out of thinking months ago. 

They wander up to the line of bars around their hotel. Mat likes when things are loud in his ears, like having to lean in too close to necks to laugh. He jumps onto a bar stool but the rest are packed, so Thomas stands behind him, fingers lining up with Mat's ribs. 

"Whiskey sour," Mat calls to the bartender. She nods, looks over at Thomas with a smile.

"I'll just-" he looks at all the names on the tap, their bright colours. He picks one that's green and says, "That one."

Mat turns before the bartender's nodding, grins up at Thomas. His fingers pluck at the soft cotton at Thomas' stomach and pull him forward between his legs. It's easy to lean down and kiss him. 

"You're so stupidly hot," Mat says, mouth up against Thomas' ear. 

"Well you're certainly- oh- " Thomas slides a twenty out of his pocket, smiles at the bartender. Mat turns his body around to grab his drink. "Thanks."

"You looked weird in Windsor," Mat says. His ankle is pressing against the back of Thomas' thigh, keeping him in. "Not like - not weird. Weird was the wrong word. You looked fucking rough, buddy."

"Felt rough."

"Yeah." Mat stares as he takes a sip. "Can I try some?"

"Sure."

His mouth is shiny when he gives it back. "It's citrusy."

"Yeah, I'm not crazy about it," Thomas says. He kisses Mat again. 

"No one," Mat says, mouth up against Thomas'. "Looked as bad as Stromer though. Jesus. Thought that kid was going to end it all."

Thomas nods. He kisses at Mat's mouth more and Mat takes the bait, stops talking about Stromer and the Mem Cup and all the time between them. 

And then they're drunk. They were drunk at that bar and now they're drunk back in their hotel room, crowded onto one bed with one bed's itchy linen under their cotton shirt shoulders. Thomas is warm and happy and his legs feel too heavy to ever ever move again but it's okay. 

It's okay because Mat's here next to him, his hair so long and his eyes so bright they're hard to look at. He's digging his nose at the spot under Thomas' chin that goes all hot when he's nervous and it sounds like he's muttering:

"You're so good Chabby."

Thomas kisses his forehead, his cheek, then his whiskey sour mouth. Mat keeps moving, surging up and pushing at Thomas' hips with his own hips and Thomas brings his hand up, palm across Mat's throat-

"Not that good," he says, heavy like he knows Mat likes, and he tightens his hold. 

He pulls back to look. It's too dark to see properly but there's Thomas' fingers around Mat's throat, his thumb holding Mat's chin in place as he looks. He can feel a pulse under his fingerprints, heady and too real. 

Mat breathes in all slow, eyes dark and hot. "Sounds like a challenge to me."

And why the fuck not.

It's good because it's always good with them, even when they're sloppy and Thomas' knee keeps sliding off the bed. It's good and afterwards they're giggly, laid out shoulder to bare shoulder. 

Mat leans up on an elbow to poke at a bruise near his hip, then laughs and flops back down. An ambulance calls out on the street below them and Mat turns, fits his ear in the hollows of Thomas' shoulder. It's nice for a minute, until Mat bites down on flesh and muscle. 

"You fucker!"

Mat laughs, tickles his fingers into Thomas' stomach. "You love it."

On the side table Thomas' phone buzzes. He reaches out with one arm, unlocks it. 

Beaner: _Oh shit whoops_.

Beaner: _There's a cool place on the Island? Idr what it's called tho_

"Fucking Jake Bean," Mat says. His fingers are dancing up and down Thomas' left side. "Never reliable. Never dependable."

"Just a useless legume."

Mat laughs and Thomas can feel himself smile and then Jake Bean and his lousy, late restaurant recommendations are forgotten.

iv.

It starts raining two hours out of Moose Jaw and it doesn't stop. They pull over for gas and snacks at an empty Esso on the way out of Swift Current. It's fucking teeming down as they stand just inside of the doors of the convenience store-Tim Hortons hybrid. 

"Do you want me to take over?" Thomas asks, watching droplets of water sliding along Mat's jaw to the sharp square of his chin.

"Sure," Mat says out the side of his mouth like an Ontarian boy. "Need a coffee first though."

Thomas buys, a twenty pack of Timbits and two coffees, while Mat flirts with the stammering seventeen year old working the till.

"You traumatized the poor kid."

"He's from Saskatchewan. I guarantee that's the most exciting thing that will literally ever happen to him." Mat takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces. "God, that's awful."

"We get it, you lived in Seattle," Thomas says. "You ready?"

They run. Thomas folds himself near in half to protect their drinks from the brutal beat of a prairie rain. The door handle is slippery and Mat's shouting and when Thomas drops down into the driver's seat he's soaked. 

On the passenger side Mat's grey shirt has gone near black. He peels it off, reaching into the back to pull at the zippers of his bag. 

Thomas turns the ignition, twisting the heat as high as it can go once the engine starts. He puts his fingers up against the vent and watches pale skin disappear under a Thunderbirds hoodie. Mat shudders into it, fingers pulling at cuffs, like it's a new skin. 

"Here," Mat says. Thomas blinks and looks at the sweater he's holding out. Mat grabbed it from his dad before they left because all Thomas's bag has is swimming trunks and button downs for dinner. Mat helps him strip, then pulls the sweater over the brown of Thomas' stomach. 

"Suits you," he says, smile sharp.

Thomas looks down. The 1992 World Series winning Blue Jays look up at him. "Get fucked."

Mat laughs and leans over, kisses Thomas' cheek. He smells right in the rain, looks good with his hair wet and all in front of his forehead like that. 

"How many chocolate did you get?" he asks, quiet, because he has not moved very far away. 

"_ Huit _," Thomas says.

They aren't even halfway across the country, this country they've won silver for, cried for. It's raining and they aren't in Moose Jaw yet and it's dark and Thomas would give up a lot for this moment to linger just a little longer. 

Mat cracks the Timbits box open, pops a chocolate one in his mouth. He chews like an eighth grader at a middle school dance and Thomas wants to hold his hand. 

"You want one?"

"Do I want one of the things I just bought?" 

"Easy," Mat says. He holds out a honey glaze and Thomas bites it from his fingers.

It's late, dark, when they check into a Comfort Inn in Moose Jaw. They order pizza after twelve minutes of Mat trying to remember the name of a Chinese place he's had before and failing. 

"It definitely has 'dumpling' in the title," Mat says, clicking around on his phone. "Or 'sweet' something. It's definitely something something 'sweet dumpling'." 

"I think you're a sweet dumpling too, Mathew."

Thomas calls the order in, then goes to shower off the rain. The water pressure is even more shit than the hotel in Calgary but it's nice to be by himself a minute. When he comes back into the main room Mat's sprawled along a corridor of the bed, remote rising with his chest, frowning at Nick Kypreos. 

"What's the score?"

"3-0 Pens," Mat says. His hoodie's ridden up on his stomach so Thomas puts his hand there and lowers himself down so he's facing Mat. "When's the pizza getting here?"

"Once they round up Noah and load the Ark."

Mat snorts and puts his hands all over Thomas' face, mouth all over Thomas' mouth. He likes to be amused a little bit less than Thomas likes to amuse him and his skin warms under Thomas' hands. 

"Sorry the weather's shit," Mat says like he had something to do with it. 

"I think we'll manage."

"No it's just. Sorry."

Thomas should be on a beach in the Caribbean but he wasn't expecting Mat to ever apologize about it - "I'm not here to see the sites."

The coffee is wearing off and it's coming onto Thomas in waves. He tucks his face into the warm hood on Mat's shoulder, slides his arms around waist until they're just hugging. 

"Chabby," Mat says, fingers in Thomas' hair. "You old man."

He is in Moose Jaw. He is hugging Mathew Barzal in a bed of questionable comfort. "I am never moving."

"We have to drive to Winnipeg tomorrow."

"I am never moving."

Mat gets sweet, like he does only sometimes and even then only around Thomas. His fingers scritch-scratch along the line of Thomas' hair while his other hand rubs in circles on Thomas' back. 

There's a knock at the door. Thomas is groaning before Mat can even nudge him. 

The kid at the door is maybe a year younger than them but feels decades and miles away. They sprawl their pizzas - pepperoni for Mat, veggie deluxe for Thomas - and selves onto the bed and eat until the Penguins win. 

"You've got sauce on your lip," Mat says and then, after a second, "well, not anymore."

Thomas kisses him back. They're back to their old position, hands on faces and the kind of kisses that drown out the sound of the rain against the window. Thomas runs his thumb over Mat's eyebrows and Mat bristles along with them, biting at Thomas' fingers and smoothing the hair down himself.

They shut the lights off before midnight, curl up in boxers and their sweaters. Winnipeg will be almost seven hours if they are diligent. The blinds don't close all the way; Thomas can see the shadows Mat's eyelashes make on his face as they move to share a pillow.

"I'm absolutely bagged," Mat says.

Thomas closes his eyes. "I'm going to sleep for sixteen years."

Fingers tap at his cheekbone. When Thomas keeps his eyes closed Mat sighs, yawns, and stretches his toes out along Thomas' shin. 

"Beau's mom says nothing tires you out like a good rain."

Thomas opens one eye.

The problem is that Mat will spend three quarters of a day bitching, yelling and being an absolute dick. But then, for no good reason, he'll quote Anthony Beauvillier's mom all soft. Thomas never stood a chance, not really.

v.

"Hey Mat?"

"Yeah?"

Thomas waits until they're almost to Brandon to ask. He's driving, Mat crumpled up in the passenger seat with his feet on the dashboard, arm bent along the window sill. He looks sharp against the rows of yellow canola, out of place. It doesn't make any sense that they're here. 

"Why did you ask me to come?" 

Mat clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He looks out his window. 

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not."

Thomas watches the road. He watches the blues across the sky. Everything is wide here, open and exposed. They haven't seen another car in awhile, just mile after mile of the same yellow fields. Mat needed to take a piss earlier so they pulled over and Thomas watched a plane crawl across the sky for a minute, like an ant over the pavement. 

"You said yes."

Thomas shakes himself. "What?"

"You came," Mat says. "Why did you come?"

"Why did you ask me to come?"

Mat pushes his sunglasses up off his nose and into his hair. His eyes are sharp and that weird, pretty grey colour when they meet Thomas'. He says, "We're asking the same question."

"Yeah." 

They don't make sense. Mat's angular, he's sharp and hot and a bit of a dick. Thomas is stretched too long, smiles too wide. He's polite. It feels like, sometimes, that he's spent half his life apologizing for Mat's careless way with words. 

"New York and Ottawa aren't too far," he says, slow. He looks out the window as he does, the haze over the long stretch of tarmac. "A lot closer than we were before."

"Three times a year."

"But only a couple hours in a plane."

"You're fucked if you think I'm flying to Ottawa on my day off."

"Better get a good apartment in Long Island then," Thomas says.

Mat is looking at him. Thomas keeps looking at the road. Between them, on the speakers, a girl sings about getting her heart broken. The sun seems to stretch on forever here, high in the sky and golden everywhere. It paints half of Mat's face, turns his skin alabaster. 

"Yeah?" he says.

Thomas nods. "Yeah."

They're still hours out of Brandon, days away from Sainte-Marie. The road stretches in front of them, this impossible, liberating thing, and there's fields of fucking barley around them. Maybe if Mat had been braver they wouldn't be here, sweating in a car. Or maybe if Thomas had opened his mouth after the silver, had said what he wanted to, had said, "I can't go back to what this used to be," maybe then they would both be down South, lying on the beach and kissing in the sand. 

It doesn't matter, in the end,

It doesn't matter because Mat takes his hand and their fingers fit, together, and everything else can wait until tomorrow. 

**Author's Note:**

> i can be found, yelling about willy nylander, [here](https://statsmcbitch.tumblr.com/).


End file.
